


Len'alas lath'din (dirty child no one loves, not even me, not even my thirsty blood)

by Snowfaun



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, I don't know why I'm doing this to myself, but here we are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 08:29:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5199098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowfaun/pseuds/Snowfaun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The air trapped between the lungs as his soul trapped between the Maker’s fangs.<br/>A heart perhaps more tender than is wise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Len'alas lath'din (dirty child no one loves, not even me, not even my thirsty blood)

“So then what?”  
“So then I stood there, right there”, she pointed at the emptiness behind the front door, the hollow space between their room and Ferelden; between their dream and _their_ dream, “And then I dreamt of a life outside this cell, this prison, this everlasting rotten kingdom, this damned soul of mine; this everlasting rotten blood.”  
So then a silence.  
So then a beating.  
So then “WHY CAN'T WE EVER LEAVE FERELDEN. I'LL DO AS MORRIGAN DID, I WILL LEAVE IT, TEAR IT DOWN, FORGET IT. BURN IT, BURN IT, I WILL BURN IT DOWN.”  
Zevran sadly replied, “you are not allowed to burn our home.”  
A laugh so bitter it poisoned the land.  
“Home”, she repeated, tasting the word with a tongue so venomous, so virulent and toxic, a tongue full of lies she had already swallowed, “my home is not a place, but a beating.”  
But a beating heart, but a beaten flesh.  
Zevran had his hands, his legs, his arms, his dirty face filled with scars.

***

A pale bitterness crawling across the room. A small, sweet belief creeping from the inside to the open door and the open, empty chamber.  
Zevran saw her like an angel discovers his halo: bright, blessed, unbroken, _terrified_.  
“You are a kind woman”, not a remembrance but a fact, but a hand high in front of her face asking for silence. “I'm leaving tomorrow morning, but you need to know this first; know it well. You are a kind, kind woman.” Then why did he sound so sad? “You are not meant for this, you have a transparent soul. And— and a heart perhaps more tender than is wise.”  
She remembered his words and almost laugh to keep herself from crying.  
“Cruel to the end.”  
He didn’t smile that time, didn’t talk, didn’t say a word. He was always so overflowing with fancy words, fancier sentences, even fancier ideas because that was all he ever had, right? A slushy mouth covered by a layer of silly whispering. A silly, silly boy, so stupid and poor and with hands only meant for killing, “what would I do if I lost you?” He sounded so hopeless, “what would I do with hands not meant for grieving?”  
She stretched her fingers.  
“Yet you’re still leaving.”  
“So that you’ll stay living.”

***

_Aneth ara._  
A safe place.  
A beating heart, a home leaving the house, leaving the room.  
Zevran didn’t look back because, oh, Maker, if he did. Zevran didn’t look back because ar lasa mala revas, _you are free now_.  
(You always were.)  
She touched her left wrist, a drop of blood falling to the ground as she did, touched it, caressed it, stroked it. She had always wondered if her veins would taste as corrupted wine, a rusted soul, a word never spoken.  
The rising sun so red in the horizon, tearing it and letting it bleed, _allowing_ it to bleed.  
Zevran went away. “I’ll find a cure for you, emma lath, mi amor,” he had kissed the back of her hands that morning, had pressed his lips so gently against her gloomy skin, “I’ll be back soon, you have to stay here, help the King, help the Wardens.”  
She didn’t say no, she didn’t even argue.  
“Fine,” she had said, “do as you want to.”  
Zevran would never stay there with her, watch her being watered down by a spoiled blood. He would never have a short, easy life with her; he wanted the absolution and wanted the love. “You cannot want both,” she whispered one night, “you should deny the long, pleasant life.”  
“I won’t deny you.”

***

“I know what kind of man you are.”  
He had returned.  
_Returned, returned, returned._  
“You wish you’ve killed me,” he handled her a tiny crystal bottle.  
Three years without sending a letter, spreading a rumour, coming back to her.  
“You can’t compare a single moment of fighting and a whole life of waiting.”  
Zevran stepped back.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Oh, I WISHED I owned Dragon Age or any of its characters, but obviously they all belong to Bioware.  
> My Warden is a female Surana specialized in blood magic, thus that constant references in case I didn't make it clear enough uvu  
> (Zevran left because he wanted to find a cure, btw!!)  
> Hope you enjoyed the reading and thanks a lot! ♥


End file.
